if you mourn my love – don't do it alone
by imperfectandchaotic
Summary: He has to will his hand not to shake when he weaves his fingers through the fragile piece of hair framing her face, when he cups her cheek (she leans into his palm and Stiles thinks of werewolf anchors and strong connections and the desire to be her emotional tether is something rooted and hot in his chest) and says, "I'm sorry."


**if you mourn my love – don't do it alone**

**Notes: **Spanning all of season 4 till now, this fic makes heavy reference to my imagined first meeting between Lydia and Deputy Parrish, which can be found in my season 3 finale fic, 'take me from your heart (and cut me clean).' It literally only references the scenes featuring Lydia at the station, so feel free to only read the first three sections to save yourself an entire series' worth of confusion. :)

Because I called them being a thing months ago and I will always be smug about it. Thus, this fic is a little heavy handed on the implied Lydia/Parrish, because even if I can't ship it morally in full I can imply the possibility all I want in fanfiction (dubious author logic like woah).

Also feat. canon Stalia AND ALL THE STYDIA I COULD PHYSICALLY MANAGE.

* * *

Malia says, "Oh, I wouldn't leave without you," and the way Stiles' fingers go still on the wheel makes Lydia want to shake him — _when will he realize how much he matters?_

Malia says, "I would never leave without you," and even when his eyes catch Lydia's in the rearview she finds herself looking away, because she's had that same thought in her heart for so long that she's sure he can read the truth of it in her eyes — that he'll pull it out with that same, quietly hopeful gaze he's giving the curve of Malia's ear and leave them both too raw and vulnerable for the space of the jeep to contain.

Stiles doesn't look back again; instead of hurt, Lydia only feels relief.

Going from the school parking lot to the scene of a mass murder happens — like it always happens — with Lydia only realizing when she's halfway through the unlocked back door.

Being found there over the barrel of a gun by Deputy Parrish however; that's new.

His expression is less surprised than it is exasperated, and Lydia wonders how much he gleams every time the Sheriff disappears into his office with a seventeen year old in tow.

"I'd try to explain it," she says, going for glib as she slides past him (just loose enough not to give away her heart pounding), "but I've never gotten a satisfying answer myself."

_A banshee, right before my eyes._

She'll always hate Jennifer for disappearing before she could explain.

"Just an unusual habit of showing up at places where people have been brutally murdered?"

"Are you saying I have a reputation?" she asks, going for glib again.

"An unusual one," Parrish says, like he's turned it over and over in his mind with no answer in sight — like Lydia has. "Maybe you're psychic."

If only it were that.

"Don't tell me you believe in all that." _Because you should._

"I'd like to say I don't believe in anything," says the deputy as she slips past him again, toward cherrywood baseboards. "But I keep an open mind."

_Most minds aren't open enough for this_, Lydia thinks almost desperately. It would be nice to have to pretend a little less beneath that warm green gaze.

"If you're looking for dead bodies," Parrish says — the irony is terrible — "You're a little late."

And then of course the wall slides open and Lydia wishes he hadn't jinxed them.

—

Corpses strung up like animals is far from the worst thing she's ever seen, but Lydia feels something cave inside her anyway; she ignores Parrish calling after her — "Miss Martin!" — and stumbles out of the cold, out of the passageway and out of the house to heave in the grass. Nothing comes out, and Lydia is unsurprised.

She's been empty for months now.

She can feel the deputy hovering over her, the suggestion of a warm and steady hand between her shoulder blades that doesn't quite arrive. Lydia wishes suddenly that he wasn't so proper, so respectful of her space — if he touches her, she'll know she's really here.

"If you're going to watch me throw up," she says, feeling oddly annoyed, "the least you could do is call me by my first name."

Parrish's mouth twitches as he offers her a hand. She hesitates only a breath before accepting it.

"Lydia," he says firmly, "I'm going to drive you home and you aren't going to say a word about it."

He starts across the grass and doesn't look back to see if she follows. So she does.

"What if I don't want to go home?"

She's not sure why it feels like a challenge.

Parrish eyes her over the roof of the squad car.

"Then where would you like to go?"

—

Malia calls again as they're dragging the stupid prep school beta out to the jeep.

"Hey, Malia, this isn't really a good–"

_"I'm worried about Lydia."_

Stiles nearly drops the kid's arm. Scott shoots him an incensed look and hauls Brett into the backseat mostly on his own. Derek is meeting them at Deaton's – though to be honest they probably could have used the help sneaking the kid off school grounds – Stiles recalls the dejected slump of Kira's shoulders on the bench and winces.

"You drive," he says to Scott, tossing him the keys. The alpha's eyebrows lift in surprise; Stiles gestures at the phone tucked into his shoulder and mouths _Lydia. _

Scott starts the car without comment.

"What do you mean?" Stiles demands. "What happened, is she okay? I thought you broke the cypher already."

_"We did,"_ comes Malia's voice. She pauses, and in her hesitation the familiar hum of the sheriff's station rises in his ear. When Malia speaks again, her voice drops to a whisper. _"Stiles, who's Aiden?"_

His heart drops.

_"Stiles?"_

Stiles realizes he's paused long enough that even Scott's looking at him. Someone is clearly playing some kind of cruel joke – what else can all these reminders be?

"He's…" He has to take a breath. "Someone she lost." Stiles has the sharp urge to punch something. "Where are you guys now? Still at the station?"

_"Yeah. Lydia's still going over the list. She kind of…blew up at Meredith and Meredith kind of…well, freaked out. Your dad had to separate them."_

He can feel a migraine coming.

_"Stiles, I'm really worried. You should have seen her this weekend at the lake house…we practically had to drag her away from that stupid record player."_

Stiles has never missed Allison as much as he does right now.

"Okay," he says, trying to keep his voice level. "Okay just…head back to my place okay? Stay with her. I'll be there soon."

_"Be careful,_" Malia says, and then she's gone.

—

Nothing can ever be easy in this town, Stiles thinks as he trudges up the steps of his house, nursing the bruise from Brett's attempted clinic bust. There is a small comfort in the fact that he can definitely count himself out of the running for The Benefactor with unerring certainty.

It is a very small comfort.

He's nearly forgotten about what waits for him upstairs in his room, that is until Stiles opens the front door and nearly breaks Malia's nose.

"Holy – Mali – _are you ever going to stop that?_"

Her expression isn't nearly as sheepish as it usually is – that is the first sign.

"What took you so long?"

Stiles drops his lacrosse gear with a thunk. "It doesn't matter. Is she upstairs?"

"In your room."

There is nothing malicious in it – no jealousy, no distrust – only concern, and warmth blooms in Stiles' chest. He pulls Malia closer with one hand on the small of her back and presses a soft kiss to her surprised lips.

"Thank you."

"For what?"

When Stiles just blinks at her, oddly at a loss, Malia seizes his shirt and all but drags him to the bottom of the stairs. "Just go, okay? She needs you."

He's tempted to kiss her again, but climbs the stairs before he can give in. As promised, Lydia is sitting on his bed, staring at the board. There is something hollow in her eyes that carves a hole in his chest.

"Lydia?" Stiles ventures quietly, easing his way into the room.

She hardly seems to notice him. When he crosses the room to crouch in front of her and brushes her fingers with his, Lydia flinches and Stiles is finally able to catch her eye.

"Hey," he says softly. There is a familiar pain and confusion there; the hole digs a little deeper. He wishes he still had some string to hold them both down. "Okay?"

Lydia just shakes her head.

"What happened?"

"I…" She drops her gaze. "I yelled at Meredith. I shouldn't have done it – I mean, she came all this way to help us and I just–" Lydia wrings her fingers and Stiles covers both her hands with his.

"Hey. It's okay, I already talked to my dad, she'll be fine–"

"But what about _me?"_ Lydia surges up and it's all Stiles can do to avoid cracking their heads together. "What am I supposed to do? I don't know how to _do…this,"_ — she gestures wildly at herself — "I can't turn it on or turn it off, I don't want to hear all these voices in my head, but I _have_ to, I _do,_ I just can't—"

It feels like he's been caught in an explosion; Stiles just lets instinct guide his hands to grasp Lydia's again, to hold her fists tight against his heart until she can be still again.

"Stiles," Lydia says, a gasp or a whimper. Tears fill her eyes and he hates himself, but she is looking right through him when she tells him this awful truth, "It was Aiden."

He has to will his hand not to shake when he weaves his fingers through the fragile piece of hair framing her face, when he cups her cheek (she leans into his palm and Stiles thinks of werewolf anchors and strong connections and the desire to be her_ emotional tether_ is something rooted and hot in his chest) and says, "I'm sorry."

Stiles tries not to pull as much as let Lydia step into him; her shoulders don't shake so he just smooths one hand between the wings of her shoulder blades, settling in light pressure at the small of her back. Lydia's fingers are flat against the beat of Stiles' heart in his chest, her forehead cool in the hollow of his throat.

There is space still between them, as there should be; he thinks she just needs somewhere solid to breathe. Stiles feels tears splash onto his skin – just two (_it's going to be okay_, he wants to promise, wants to swear on something sacred like the flutter of her eyelashes on his skin, but he cannot so he never will) – and then Lydia is puling away.

For a second, he feels lost without the warmth of her chasing away all of the darkness.

—

She says, "Parrish is on the list," and the part of Stiles that isn't panicking about his father's safety is laughing hysterically at the look on the Sheriff's face at the news that his favourite deputy probably sprouts wings and breathes fire.

Or something.

Research will have to come later.

"Should we tell him?" he asks, mostly thinking out loud. He glances at the board. Still all red. "Do you think he kno—"

"No," Lydia says abruptly. Stiles looks back at her, surprised. Something flits across her face, but disappears before he can put a name to it. "I mean, I don't think he knows. About any of us. Well," and here her mouth twists into an almost rueful smile, "he thinks I'm psychic."

Psychic, indeed.

"We should—" And again. That something. "We should tell him. He deserves the warning, at least."

Stiles' mind slips back to the day Scott bit Liam; he'd found Lydia on the doorstep, Parrish's cruiser on the curb. The duputy had given him this look, as Lydia made her apologies and slipped past him into the house, a look that asked,

_do you know? can you keep her safe?_

All Stiles could think to do was nod. Parrish didn't start the car again till the door was halfway closed.

(_I didn't want to go home,_ she says. _He said I had to pick somewhere equivalent._)

And now here they are at the station, dropping the bomb of that creased piece of paper and making an impossible request. The fact that Parrish doesn't seem to understand why he's on the list doesn't faze anyone, including apparently, the deputy himself.

"I'm only worth five dollars?"

"Five million," Stiles corrects.

"Maybe I should kill myself," Parrish says, sounding stunned.

Stiles looks at Lydia, who's mouth has thinned before it relaxes and she looks away again. He is so tempted to ask, to demand an explanation for that flash (pain? fear? anger?) she lets pass through her eyes whenever they speak of his father's best officer. He thinks of all the times Lydia has been here at the station without him (with Malia and Meredith, after— after Allison) and now she'd been caught at a scene, leading them to all those bodies.

There is something — Stiles can see it — to Parrish's eyes when he looks at Lydia, to the way she reacts beneath his gaze (like she has to struggle to be calm or strong or alright). It's as though the deputy has reached something or somewhere with Lydia that she and Stiles have never been, in spite of everything.

He has rarely seen her look so unsure with anyone.

Stiles wants to ask again, when Parrish tries to intervene with Meredith, when he lurches forward as Lydia falls backwards into Stiles' arms.

_What is it about him that makes her look so vulnerable?_

"You're bleeding," he says dumbly as Lydia sways in his grip. Her mouth is still half-open in shock when he cradles her jaw again, smearing his thumb through the red.

He feels a little sick.

"I'm okay," Lydia says, looking first at Stiles and then at the deputy. Parrish looks at though he's about to protest, but then she leans into Stiles' hand and Stiles is too distracted by the smooth curve of her cheek. Lydia breaks away to crouch before Meredith, who shrinks violently into the corner of the bed. Guilt gnaws at his chest.

She opens her mouth as if to speak, but there is only the sound of Meredith whimpering. Lydia stands and flees the room in a graceful whirl, wiping at her eyes.

Cowardice lurches Stiles forward to follow.

—

Parrish insists on cleaning her up.

As Lydia watches him lift a small first aid kit from his squad car, she half expects Stiles to protest, to tell him they can handle it, or at least make some kind of quiet remark about Parrish's dedication to his job, or _something,_

but nothing comes.

"I should call Scott," he says abruptly. "Be right back."

So Lydia swings her legs out the open door of the Jeep and faces the deputy alone.

"I know what you're going to say," he starts, edging closer and placing the kit on the hood.

She raises an eyebrow. "Enlighten me." The jeep is tall enough that even sitting down Lydia has the barest of advantages; yet that doesn't stop her breath from catching a little when Parrish raises his head to look her in the eye.

"I'm fine," he intones, not a hint of mocking in it. "I can handle this, I don't want to talk about it, I don't need your help."

_Well I don't_, is on the tip of her tongue, so sharp that Lydia can almost taste phantom blood on her tongue from holding it in. _You don't even know what you are._

To be fair, she doesn't know either.

"Is that all?" she asks, going for scathing but coming up tired.

The deputy's calm is unflinching as he holds out a square of soft gauze, bright white in the descending dark and smelling faintly of antiseptic. Parrish's eyes are bright too, that same steady, pale green that had anchored her in a sea of loss all those weeks ago. It's that faint grasp on something warm and safe that leads Lydia to just turn her head and let him wash away her failure.

"I think you're more worried than you let on," he continues. His touch is so light that she can hardly tell it's there. That fleeting thought from the grass of the wendigo family house surges up again – _touch me so I know I'm real._ "I think you're taking on something darker and heavier for one person to carry alone, because you feel responsible or you want to prove something, but Lydia..."

Parrish's fingers lift in the air between them before dropping, as though he thinks better of whatever he was about to do.

"You don't have to do this by yourself."

Lydia doesn't miss the flick of the deputy's eyes across the hood of the car to Stiles, and he knows it. But then Deputy Parrish (Jordan? The name seems too young for him, though he _is_ young, but how can he be that and be so sure and so steady when she feels so lost?) is looking at her again, that same warmth in his eyes and that same kindness around his mouth from the station that night—the night they lost Allison. The well of tears in her throat is familiar then, too.

There is something loaded in the air — Lydia recognizes those old feelings, but beneath them there is something else, something intense or dangerous or frightening that reminds Lydia of everything they are set to lose if they fail.

Of everyone.

And judging by the intent in the set of Parrish's jaw, he feels it too.

Thankfully, blessfully, miraculously, Stiles throws open the driver's side door before Lydia can completely lose it.

"You guys all done?"

She jumps and she almost hates herself for it. Parrish busies himself with the first aid kit, and when he catches Lydia's again, his expression has returned to that soft, careful place from before _all of this_, when he was just a beautiful boy who'd offered her tea and understanding and kindness when she'd needed it most.

What she wouldn't give to go back such a simple and innocent thing.

—

Lydia barely has room for the notion that she's practically sentencing Derek to death.

"Call Parrish," she says, an almost shout. "We have to call Parrish."

When Stiles has the dial tone Lydia plucks the phone from his fingers and presses it hard against her ear.

Please please please

_"Parrish."_

"We have to go back," she bursts out, not bothering with pleasantries. "We have to get Meredith right now."

_"Lydia—"_

"She's in danger," Lydia says desperately. "I know it's confusing, but she's on the—"

_"She's not there."_

It feels like someone's stabbed all the air from her lungs. "What are you talking about?"

_"Lydia..."_ There is something sad in his voice. _"Meredith's gone. They found her an hour ago in her room,"_ Parrish says, too soft and too calm. _"She hung herself."_

This can't be happening. This can't be real. Lydia listens to the rise and fall of the deputy's breath as though from miles away, but still can't brace herself fast enough for, "_I'm sorry."_

She knows he means it, knows he's sincere, and that quiet kindness is too much to bear. Lydia hangs up automatically and drops her arm. Her brain can't even form the words, let alone say them out loud. Someone else, gone. But Stiles doesn't need her to say it. He just steps forward and folds her into his arms, solid and strong and warm.

She should be crying, Lydia thinks distantly. She should feel something other than hollow.

Stiles' phone vibrating is almost a relief.

"Is that Scott?" she asks faintly. Stiles may have tightened his grip but she can't be sure.

"I'll call him back."

"He needs you, Stiles."

"I'm not going anywhere."

She wants him to stay. Lydia is surer of that than she's been sure of anything in a very long time, but she steps back anyway.

"Go," she says. "I'm fine."

Though Stiles' expression clearly reads _you are the worst liar ever_, beneath that his eyes are tender and it takes everything Lydia has not to burst into tears right then and there.

But if she falls apart now, there is no going back from that darkness.

She thinks Stiles understands, because when he leaves, he doesn't look back.

—

Right before they line up on this sad excuse for a beautiful Saturday, he gets a text.

_Good luck, don't break any pencils with your teeth._  
_Tell Malia she'll be fine. Going to the lakehouse._

_- L_

Right before they lock themselves into the vault, he gets another.

_I think Meredith knew my family._  
_Be back soon - how'd it go?_

_- L_

But of course Stiles doesn't get to read that one.

—

When Parrish shows up at her door, Lydia almost slams it in his face. She can't look into those eyes right now — not when she failed herself, and Meredith, so completely.

He's holding a cardboard box.

"It's Meredith's personal items they recovered from her room," he says, soft and careful. "I thought—" She's never known the deputy to hesitate. "I thought you might want them."

_Because I'm psychic?_ she wants to spit, but then remembers.

He's something, too.

"Thank you," she says, because that's what you say when someone does something morally questionable for you.

A pause. Lydia tries to remember to breathe.

"Look," the deputy begins, "I know I'm..."

She tries to look away, to avoid his gaze, but Parrish has already lifted his chin and she is caught.

"I know I'm not...in the loop here, I really have no idea what's going on. All I know is that I'm on some hitman's list, and I think you're on it, too."

If Lydia looks away, he'll know he's right. But keeping his eyes is harder than she wants it to be.

"I just want you to know that you can talk to me. If you want to. Alright?"

Lydia reaches out and takes the box; Parrish's fingers are warm.

She looks into his eyes; if he can be steady, so can she.

"Okay."

—

When Stiles doesn't text her back right away, Lydia doesn't think too much of it. She gets home from the lake and tries again.

And then she tries Scott.

And then Kira.

And then Malia.

Nothing.

The PSATs should be long over by now, shouldn't they? Lydia calls her mom, surprised when it goes straight to voicemail. She calls Stiles — horror rises when the voicemail click sounds in her ear. Stiles always answers. The seed of panic growing in her chest begins to wrap around her lungs; Lydia dials the Sheriff's station with trembling hands.

_"Parrish."_

"Hey, it's Lydia," she says, attempting to sound vaguely normal. She's overreacting. Probably. "Is the Sheriff around?"

A pause. _"He's at the school,"_ the deputy says slowly. The panic squeezes. _"There's some kind of quarantine—"_

"Oh my god."

She nearly drops the phone. The pack.

Stiles.

Her mom.

_"Lydia, don't—"_

"I have to go."

_"Lydia—!"_

But she's already running.

—

Stupid uniforms that aren't Parrish won't let her through.

"Sheriff!" she calls, hoping he's standing close enough to hear. "Sheriff!"

And then Stiles' father turns around and Lydia isn't sure which of them looks more relieved.

"Woah woah, I know this girl! Let her in."

She glares at the offending man for good measure as the Sheriff grabs her arm and pulls her over the line.

"My mom's in there," Lydia says as calmly as she can. "What happening?"

He hesitates and her heart squeezes in her chest. "We're working on it." The Sheriff looks at Agent McCall who's in a _hazmat suit,_ who waves him over. "I'll be right back."

Lydia paces and tries not to look like she's about to pass out or throw up. Or cry.

The Sheriff looks anxious when he returns, which of course does not help in the least.

"Lydia," he says carefully. "All this is still very new to me, and I don't know how it works. I still have to ask: do you have any kind of...indication?" Something in her stomach drops. "Any kind of feeling about this?"

She realizes what he's asking only just before he says it.

"Is someone in there gonna die?"

"Yes." It frightens her how quickly the answer comes, how sure it is. "And it's not just a feeling."

—

It feels like an age and a day before they're allowed in.

"Mom?" It's like her eyes can't search fast enough. And then, there she is. "Mom!"

The hallway seems so much longer, but then her mother is here, in her arms, squeezing tight.

Safe.

"I'm sorry," she says, pulling back from Lydia and smoothing back her hair. "I just...wanted a little overtime."

Lydia would laugh, if she could.

But another hug will just have to be enough.

—

And of course Stiles has to come out covered in blood.

"What—" Lydia grabs at his shoulders. "Stiles, what _happened?"_

It takes a shake before his gaze snaps to find hers, and there is a dark anger there that nearly causes her to pull back. But then it passes and she's tempted take his face in her hands instead.

"Tell me."

"She knows," he says, his jaw clenching around the words like he has to force them out. His voice sounds so rough, like he's been screaming. "She found the list. In my pocket."

Lydia opens her mouth to reply, not sure what she's going to say, but is cut off by a familiar, "Stiles!"

And then Stiles nearly disappears into his father's arms.

"I'm okay Dad," he tries, as the Sheriff pulls back and is met with that same sight Lydia struggled with mere moments ago.

"What—_whose blood is that?_"

"The assassin, Dad. The exam proctor. Agent McCall shot him."

The Sheriff's mouth falls open before he whips his head around, presumably, to find Scott's father.

In that moment of reprieve, Stiles looks at Lydia again.

"Later?" he asks quietly.

She nods. It's all she can think to do.

—

"Miss Martin."

The mass exodus from the school is apparently facilitated by Parrish, waving the crowd through the exits so they don't all trample each other. Lydia stops, sliding closer to him to avoid being shoved in the back, and waves her mom forward.

"What are you doing here?" she asks, though it's obvious and they both know it.

The deputy makes a sweeping gesture with one arm. "Crowd control," he says over the din. And then he ducks his head to catch her eye and she knows she's in for it.

"Please don't ever do that again."

A strange mix of guilt and anger presses in her chest. "I'm sorry," Lydia says, surprised that she can meant it and not both at once. "I just...had to."

"I know," Parrish replies, not unkindly. "I just wish I could've been here to help. Sheriff didn't want to cause a panic, but I guess I did that to you." What looks like regret flashes across his face and Lydia feels an odd horror at the realization that the deputy feels badly. "I'm sorry."

"I should be the one apologizing," she blurts. "We're dragging you into—"

"Lydia."

She doesn't mean to start, but she does, and so does Parrish. Lydia fixes her eyes on a distant point behind the deputy's head. When she looks at him again, Parrish's gaze is smooth, careful. Professional.

"You're not dragging me into anything," he says calmly. "If anything, you're probably saving my life. Or at least, prolonging it for as much as humanly possible."

A laugh bubbles up; Lydia nearly chokes in an effort to hold it down.

"I meant what I said," Parrish says quietly.

"I know."

He'll come if she calls, Lydia is sure. Which is why she never will.

The crowd begins to press harder around them, the sound and the feeling rising in Lydia's senses like the volume being cranked up again after a long pause. She clears her throat, suddenly strangely uncomfortable.

"I'll let you get back to..." Lydia makes a vague gesture at everything, to which the deputy inclines his head. She has the oddest notion that if he were wearing a hat, he would be tipping the brim at her.

Lydia is almost a foot away before she whirls around, as though pulled by some unknown force back to him.

"Jordan," she says, surprised at herself even as his name leaves her mouth. Parrish's eyes go wide as Lydia stumbles on, spurred by an urgency that scares her. "Please be careful."

The deputy opens his mouth, closes it, and nods.

Lydia turns and lets the crowd swallow her until she can't see him anymore.

—

Later turns out to be six minutes after two in the morning, the day before they're going to pretend to kill Scott.

(_That is a terrible idea,_ she says incredulously.

Stiles glares at her._ It was **Scott's,** okay?_)

He's holding out his keys again; they drive in silence until the reach the cliff overlooking Beacon Hills. Here, when Stiles cuts the engine, the silence seems even louder.

"She hates me."

"She's just hurt," Lydia says patiently. "She feels betrayed."

"Peter's gonna—"

"You don't know that yet," she tells him, ignoring the scandalized glare. "Just give it time, okay? Malia knows how much you care about her."

The flip from anger to pain in Stiles' eyes is so fast it makes her heart hurt.

"I can't find her anywhere," he says, soft and broken. "She's probably already gone."

Lydia reaches across the gearshift for both of his hands. Stiles folds his fingers with hers almost instinctively, staring at them as he speaks.

"She'll never trust me again." There is so much bitterness in his voice. "And why would she? Look what I—"

"Hey."

Lydia waits for Stiles to lift his head, resisting that familiar urge to take his face in her hands. "Do you trust me?"

He nods, something so sure in the motion that her stomach twists.

"She'll come back." Lydia squeezes his fingers as if to press her certainty into him. "She chose you, you know. Real coyotes stay with their mates for a long time."

Stiles blinks at her, an adorable mix of confusion and hopefulness, and Lydia finds herself with that familiar feeling of

_please_

_just_

_stay_.

—

All these revelations about her grandmother make a kind of eerie, morbid sense.

At least, Lydia figures, it runs in the family and she isn't the crazy, death predicting black sheep, so to speak. But explaining it all to the Sheriff makes it seem, just for a moment, the most ridiculous story she's ever heard. So when a charred Deputy Jordan Parrish waltzes back into the station and lays out his own would-be assassin, in the moment of reprieve between silence and shock, Lydia feels a odd relief.

But then the gun goes off and the Sheriff is grabbing at his shoulder and Stiles has shoved her down and away from the door.

She has never been afraid of Parrish before. Yet in that silence as she scrambles to her feet and he stands and turns to face them, before his expression fades from rage to disbelief and shock, Lydia's first instinct is to shrink away from him.

"I..." Parrish looks from them to the knocked out officer on the floor. "He tried to kill me."

It takes another moment for him to notice his boss. "Oh my god, Sheriff, I—"

"At ease, Parrish," The Sheriff says, though through gritted teeth. Even Lydia winces as Stiles helps haul his father to his feet. "I'll be fine. Now are you alright?"

The deputy looks down at his hands and feet, seeming to notice for the first time that he's completely naked. "Um, yes. I just need uh, clothes."

"Your locker, son," Sheriff Stilinski says patiently.

Lydia turns away automatically as Parrish walks mechanically past, presumably in search of anything that is not grime and ash. He rounds the corner out of sight, and she lets out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

"So..." says Stiles' father after a pause. "Any idea what—"

"Nope," Stiles replies, sounding a touch amused beneath the strain of the Sheriff's blood oozing out of his shoulder. "Not a clue."

The Sheriff lets out a long breath. "Of course."

"We need to get you to the hospital, Dad."

"But what about Parrish?"

Stiles looks at Lydia, clearly at as much of a loss as his father.

"I'll take him," she says then. "I'll take him to Derek's. Maybe he knows."

He looks as though he's about to protest, but says nothing except, "Text Scott. Tell him to meet you there. You can..." For a moment the worry and confusion fade and Stiles' eyes are soft. "You can tell them about your grandmother."

Telling Stiles that story was hard enough. Telling it without him there seems impossible.

"I'll text you later," he says, like a promise.

Lydia opens her mouth to say something else, something more, but then Parrish reappears in civilian clothing and there isn't time or room in her heart for anything but a simple nod.

"Where are we going?" asks Parrish, seemingly otherwise content to follow her out of the station, as per the Sheriff's orders. He overtakes her steps to hold the door open for her and Lydia somehow finds it in herself to smile at him.

"To talk to some friends."

—

The fact that Derek has no idea is a little disconcerting, to say the least.

Parrish, for his part, is handling this surprisingly well.

"Just...just tell me one thing. Are all of you like Lydia?" She raises an eyebrow at this, more out of instinct than anything else. "Are you all pyschic?"

"Pyschic?" Derek repeats, and Lydia can see him holding down a laugh.

"Not exactly," Scott says reluctantly.

"Okay, then..." Parrish eyes both Derek and Scott, looking nervous for the first time. "What are you?"

He doesn't react much to the sight of Scott's red eyes, other than a faint, "Um..." and a glance at Lydia, who supplies him helpfully with,

"Werewolf. Alpha, actually."

Parrish looks at her, and then at Scott, for a long moment.

"Right. And you? You're not..." His lips twitch. "You're not really psychic are you?"

Lydia has the oddest urge to smile back at him. "No, I'm not. I'm..." This is the first time she's ever had to really say the words out loud. "I'm a banshee. I um, I predict death. I...hear things."

Parrish tilts his head and she has to force herself not to look away. "And...your friends?"

Lydia glances at Derek, who nods his head. And then she starts the list.

After 'Stiles was possessed by an evil fox spirit called the Nogitsune,' the deputy declares he needs to sit down.

"Wait, what's a kanima?"

It would be kind of adorable, if the conversation doesn't turn then to darker things.

"How easy is it to get this thing now?"

Scott and Derek exchange ominous looks and Lydia's stomach sinks.

—

"There's something else," she says, something twisting painfully in her chest as all three men lift their heads. "It's about Meredith. And my grandmother."

Telling the story again is every bit as painful as it was the first time. There is something almost relieving about telling Derek, Scott, and Parrish together — three intelligent, perceptive people who don't need her to say all the words to understand the whole story — but the shame of admitting what she'd done to Meredith is almost too much.

"My grandmother drove her insane." She has to swallow over the guilt in her throat. "And I drove her to suicide. And all she ever wanted to do was help."

Lydia digs Lorraine's handwritten code from her pocket, grateful for the moment to get herself together. "My grandmother created the code for the deadpool," she explains to three solemn faces. "I think she's the banshee who put the names out in the first place." She slides the paper over to Scott. "She left me this message in the same code."

"But she didn't leave a cypher key, did she?" Scott asks, nothing accusing or angry or even urgent about it. The question is gentle, and Lydia is so grateful her throat almost closes again as she shakes her head.

"You and Stiles will figure it out," he says, not so much encouraging as certain, and not for the first time Lydia thinks that no one could be a truer Alpha than Scott McCall. "You always do."

As if on cue, her phone chimes with a text.

_Hey, I'm outside whenever you're ready. Can you tell Parrish Dad wants him to take the rest of the night off?  
__Says it's the least he can do considering the poor guy essentially died tonight._

_- S_

"You're off for the night," Lydia relays. When Parrish looks surprised, she adds, "Sheriff's orders."

The deputy closes his mouth without further argument. As he waits on the building's steps for her to reach the Jeep, Lydia turns back.

"I know this is a lot," she begins, and he lets out something that could be a laugh.

"That's one way to put it."

"When all this is over," if we both survive, "I can try and explain it to you, if you want. Everything. We can..." Lydia pauses, trying to find the right words. "We can try and figure out what you are."

It is her turn to be the stable one and it's more difficult than she wants it to be.

The upturn of Parrish's mouth is grateful. "Thank you. Be safe, alright?"

There is a bizarre comfort in being able to reply, "You too," and for it to make perfect sense to both of them.

—

Failing this many times at something would be grating beyond belief, if it weren't for Stiles failing right alongside her.

"The code was left for _you._ The ashes were left for _you."_ Lydia would yell at him for stating the obvious, but this is how he processes information. "You're supposed to be able to figure this out."

"When no one else is," she finishes with frustration. "Which is why she made it harder."

As Stiles finally relinquishes to the printer and shoves paper inside, Lydia almost doesn't hear him say, "No one else."

Stiles says, "No one else but you," and for some reason a shiver crawls up her spine.

"What?"

"Our guesses," he elaborates urgently, words pouring out faster and faster. "They're all about Lorraine, right? We keep trying to guess a word that has something to do with her. So, maybe we should be trying to guess one that's about you."

"Me?" He's lost her. "What about me?"

"Well, what do you remember doing with your grandmother? You know, what was your guys' like special thing? Did you guys—did you go to the beach, you know? Did you like ice cream?"

"We read," Lydia says, the memory suddenly as sharp and clear as the curve of Stiles' face on her desk only moments before.

"Okay, what did you read?"

She only has a split second to be certain that he won't laugh. "_The Little Mermaid._"

"You read that movie?"

Idiot, she thinks fondly. "It was a book first. Hans Christian Anderson?"

Nothing, of course.

"Type it in. Little Mermaid."

Nothing. Not even just _Mermaid._

It makes no sense, because it makes perfect sense, and yet it doesn't work?

"We read it every night," she says, like she's insisting that the memories are real. "I got so obsessed with it, for three months I wouldn't respond to anything but 'Ariel. It drove my parents crazy." Lydia feels Stiles lean forward, because he understands, before she even gets the words out. "But Grandma thought it was adorable."

Five keystrokes.

And they're in.

There is a curious absense of 'worth' beside each name, but even more puzzling is that when Stiles asks, "Okay, you recognize any of these?" to which Lydia replies, "Just my grandmother," her brain has already registered that someone cannot be worth any money on a hitlist if that person is already dead.

And then of course her printer goes haywire.

"We need to call Scott."

—

Stiles says, "Eichen House," and the way his jaw tightens makes Lydia want to drag him as far away from there as humanly possible. But her desire to know wins out.

"We have to go."

Stiles drags her away from Parrish and drops his voice.

"Lydia, Eichen House isn't a library. You need a warrant to get files from there."

"My grandmother left me a list of ten suicides, including her own," she shoot back. "There's got to be a reason why. Is there anyone there who's willing to help us?"

Stiles' jaw goes tight again. "No, but there might be someone willing to take a bribe."

—

The mix tape should have been enough of a warning sign.

But Stiles is too distracted by the sight of his name in Lydia's handwriting to realize what is happening, and by then of course he's too slow and the pain is so sharp that he blacks out completely.

When he wakes up, he's manacled to the post in the centre of the room and Brunski is gone, but considering that Stiles can't loosen the hold no matter how hard he tries, he figures the lunatic will be back in short order.

"Lydia?" he calls out, twisting as much as possible to see the rest of the room. He catches strawberry blonde at the edge of his vision, on the other side of the post. "Lydia, are you okay?"

"You mean besides the fact that a sleazy orderly in a mental institution just tazered us both?" comes the snippy reply. A beat. "I'm fine."

"I can't..." Stiles has hated himself plenty before, but the hatred of his human frailty has never been so sharp and bitter. "I can't get out."

"So we try something else," she says, and then she starts to scream.

"Lydia, there are are a lot of people screaming for help in a place like this," Stiles reminds her, still struggling. "I don't think anyone's listening."

"Well I'm open to better ideas," she says, nearly hissing in anger. "Because if you didn't notice, all those suicides were _murders."_

"That's why she left you the message," Stiles realizes.

"She predicted her own death." The door creaks and Lydia says in a rush, "She knew I'd figure it out."

"Once you were able to predict your own," says Brunski, and Stiles struggles harder as the man strides closer and closer to Lydia. "But they weren't murders. I am not some serial killer, like Ted Bundy going around cutting up college girls."

"Nah," Stiles deadpans, too focused on getting him away from Lydia to rethink it, "You're just an Angel of Death."

It works; Brunski nearly whips around.

"I don't think you understand my level of commitment to my work here, Stiles," the man hisses. "There are people here who don't simply need treatment, they need _release._ I _helped_ them. I _helped_ Lorraine."

Stiles' stomach drops.

"You killed her," Lydia says, so soft and broken that chills shoot up his spine.

"I _helped_ her," Brunski insists, moving back towards her. "And now you can help me." His voice drops even further and Stiles has to strain to hear. "Because there is something that...has always bothered me."

There is an odd clicking sound; Lydia goes very quiet and Stiles has never felt dread like this before.

—

The sound of Lydia's grandmother breathing on the tape will haunt him for a long time.

"Lydia, look at me." Stiles squirms until he can just make out the pale curve of her face. The desperate desire to save her from this is so hot in his chest that Stiles can barely speak. "Don't listen. Okay? Don't listen to it. Just focus on my voice, alright? You don't listen to it. Block it out, okay?"

But she's turning away and that desperation twists into an anger that is nearly blinding. "Hey, turn it off!"

Getting sucker punched by a man twice his size doesn't hurt nearly as much as the realization that he can't protect her.

Not from this.

"I need your help with this, Lydia." Brunski hisses as Lorraine pleads on the tape. "This is the part I never understood. Listen."

_"Please don't hurt her."_

_"Hurt who?"_

A wheezing breath.

_"Ariel."_

Helplessness and anger twist and twist until Stiles can barely breathe.

Lydia is silent.

Failure presses him down into the floor.

—

"We get a lot of teenagers trying to break into our drug cabinets," Brunski says, and everything in Stiles goes still.

"Most of the time they don't succeed, but you two..." He brandishes a syringe and a bottle; panic wells up into a frantic whiteness in Stiles' brain. "...look pretty clever to me."

There's a bruise on his elbow from slamming it back into the post this many times.

"I'll admit Stiles," the killer says conversationally, "I don't have any unusual talents like Lydia." Stiles cannot stop staring at the point of the needle. "But somehow, I just knew we were gonna get a chance to do this again."

He can hear Lydia pleading as Brunski advances, but it's not until he twists away and her scream is broken that Stiles' anger pierces something in his chest. Suddenly his arm is wrenched free and a shout leaps from his mouth — he's going to kill him, he's really going to—

"Drop it!"

And then Parrish appears and Stiles can suddenly see past the dark.

All his brain can manage though is _save her save her save her_

He jumps when Parrish fires and for a moment he really can't breathe, but then air comes rushing back and Stiles sits up with a gasp as the deputy frees Lydia first, his gun still pointed at the still and silent orderly.

"He killed my grandmother," Lydia tells him, flat and frightened before Stiles hears the clatter of her manacles falling and relief pours into his bones. "He was controlling Meredith," she gasps, scrambling across and helping Stiles, who is still half out of his chains but relishes Lydia's trembling fingers on his wrists anyway.

"He used her to create the deadpool," he says, and he isn't sure when they started building sentences together, but she says,

"And he killed he when she tried to help us," and there isn't anything more to say.

Brunski not quite being dead yet is surprising, but not as surprising as what his final words are.

"You think it was me? That I was controlling _her?"_ The pyscho is laughing and Stiles wants to throw up. "She was controlling _me."_

"Oh god." Lydia of course, is the first to realize. "It's not him. He's not the Benefactor."

"No," comes an all-too familiar voice. "And he wasn't on my list." Meredith Walker appears from behind a shelf and Stiles finds his vocal chords locked together. "But he was a bad person."

"_Meredith?_" Lydia's voice is still hoarse from shouting, but the shock and the pain are still there. "But—"

"I didn't think you'd find out about your grandmother, Lydia," Meredith says in that slow, serene way of hers. "So you understand now why I had to do this."

Lydia makes a sound like she's struggling to breathe; Stiles' feet carry him over instinctively, planting him in front of her, making his body as big as he can so the top of her head is nearly lost over his shoulder. Because he won't risk losing her again and doing nothing.

He can't.

"Meredith," Parrish says calmly, not pointing his gun but still holding it firmly in his grip, "Meredith, I need you to put your hands over your head and turn around."

The pale girl starts, as if she's noticing the deputy for the first time.

"I can't," she says, sounding then like the fragile, frightened girl Stiles had met so long ago. "I don't want to."

"I don't want to hurt you," Parrish says, still calm and careful but pleading all the same. "You just admitted to conspiring to kill everyone on those lists. I can't just let you go."

Meredith looks from him to Stiles, to the space over Stiles' shoulder where he knows Lydia is visible. He shifts a little more, a voice in his brain shouting _hide her, protect her, keep her safe, don't let monsters close._

"Is Lydia coming?" Meredith asks, still sounding like the person they all thought she had been. Bile rises in Stiles' throat. He opens his mouth to spit, _she is **never** going anywhere with you, you crazy—_

"Yes."

Stiles nearly convulses; fingertips dig into his shoulder and he is reminded very abruptly of their time in _Bardo._

She was holding him up then, too.

"I'll go with you, Meredith," Lydia says, so faintly that even Stiles can barely hear. "Just do what he says, okay?"

This has to be one of the longest pauses of his life. Meredith doesn't _look_ armed or dangerous, but there's no telling what else is hiding in the shadows. Stiles learned a long time ago not to underestimate the people who want them all dead.

"Meredith," Parrish says again. "Please turn around. Put your hands above your head."

And she does.

But it's not until Meredith is firmly handcuffed to the shelving that Stiles can bring himself to look away.

"Stiles," the deputy is saying now, softly. "Stiles, I need to look at her."

He realizes then that he's still crouched in front of Lydia, still covering her body with his own with an urgency that doesn't fade enough, even as his heart steadies in his chest. Parrish kneels before him, eyes gentle. The deputy puts a steady, firm hand on his shoulder and Stiles finally summons enough presence of mind to slide away, his brain only allowing him to move an arm's length away from Lydia's too-still frame.

"Lydia?" Parrish reaches out with both hands and cradles her face. His voice is soft and gentle but beneath that Stiles can hear a quiet, contained fear. "Lydia, look at me."

Stiles watches her eyes focus on Parrish. He isn't sure what this feeling is in his chest when the first thing she says is, "Stiles."

"He's fine," the deputy soothes, undeterred. "He's right here, he's okay. But do you feel alright? Do you feel sick or strange?" Parrish smudges his thumb over the faint puncture point on Lydia's neck. "I think I got him in time but—"

"He killed my grandmother," Lydia whispers. Parrish's face falls.

"I know. I'm sorry."

"It didn't go in," Lydia says, her voice rising into a sharp crescendo, nearly frantic. "It was going to but you shot him—" Her head jerks to find Stiles. "We almost died."

All he can do is look back at her. _I almost lost you._

"I think she's alright," Parrish says, leaning back and pulling away. "I mean, not drugged. We should get you two to the hospital, just in case."

Stiles takes that as his invitation to lurch forward, where Lydia latches her fingers into his arm.

"Stiles," she says again. She tightens her grip as she looks up into his eyes. It hurts but he doesn't care.

"You're okay," he breathes, carding shaking fingers through her hair. "It's okay."

Lydia drops her head into the space between his neck and shoulder; Stiles shivers as her lips move over his skin. "I don't think I can stand up," she says there faintly.

"Good thing I have werewolf strength."

Her laughter puffs warm over his throat and spurrs him on. He gets one of her arms over his shoulder and eases them both off the floor. Lydia is trembling. Stiles lopes an arm around her back.

"This," he says, "is either going to be really impressive or really sad."

But by some miracle he's gotten stronger in the past few years, or maybe Lydia's just as tiny as she looks, because Stiles manages to not only lift her, one hand behind her knees and the other around her back, but keep her there, cradled close to his chest. She isn't heavy by any means, but his arms still shake a little anyway.

"Are you okay to drive?" Parrish asks, unhooking a silent Meredith from the shelf and handcuffing her behind the back.

Stiles nods, trying to focus on the feeling of Lydia breathing against him.

"Then I'll meet you guys at the hospital after I drop Meredith at the station."

Stiles walks over Brunski's body with Lydia in his arms and feels nothing.

—

By the time they reach the hospital and begin the parking lot trek, Lydia insists that she can walk, though she can't bring herself to argue when Stiles slides an arm behind her back.

"Your dad is going to kill you," she says as they keep a slow and steady pace through the hissing automatic doors. A poor choice of words maybe, as Stiles stiffens and looks down at her.

"Maybe," he says after a pause. Lydia is surprised when a faint smile flickers in his eyes. "But at least I'm with you."

* * *

**More Notes: **Hello friends it is good to be back.

Just a heads up, I start my first real teaching job this Monday, so this will be my last genuine length piece of writing for probably a long while as I try not to fail at a real career. Thank you so much for all the support and love, and of course I will continue to watch and flail on Tumblr as much as I can while working so please never hesitate to come join in on the shenanigans and crying.

Stay strong, my shipmates.

Annie


End file.
